


Does not play well with others

by usedupshiver



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Asthmatic Steve Rogers, Character Death, Gen, Ghosts, Halloween, Haunted Houses, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Star Wars References, Tony Stark Has Issues, munchhausen by proxy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 18:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8411518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usedupshiver/pseuds/usedupshiver
Summary: While sneaking into the Starks' abandoned home, Steve makes the startling discovery that even though no Stark is living in the house anymore, not all of them have actually left.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just checking in to ask you to please heed the MCD warning (even though things will - sort of - end happily...) 
> 
> With that said - Happy Halloween! :D

The old, victorian house at the end of the street had been abandoned for over three decades now, but the faded letters on the mailbox still read ”Stark”. It had once been painted red, with dark gray trim, but most of the colour had peeled off of the wood. With its narrow construction and tall, dark windows it had a gaunt, hollow look, stern and brooding among old trees and overgrown bushes in the unkempt yard. The closer you got to the house, the more it seemed to loom over you, giving the impression that it was about to fall down on your head, even though it stood as straight as ever.

For years, it had been a secret tradition among the teenagers on the street to sneak into the house on Halloween. A show of bravery and a coming-of-age ritual as good as any. And one they thought their parents had no idea about, even though they had passed the same test of daring in their day.

Steve and his friends had all turned fifteen in the past year, and decided that it was time for them to visit the Stark house.

Bucky had been first, back in March. Then Steve himself, with his 4th of July birthday under the fireworks. And last Clint and Natasha, who shared their late August birthday, and often got to hear that the reason they got along so well was that they were secretly twins. Thankfully, that joke had died quickly after the two started dating, because otherwise it would have turned really creepy.

While darkness fell over the street, lined by trees growing autumn-bare and flickering jack-o'-lanterns, a few stray kids still rushing from door to door in the hunt for sugar, the four teenagers armed themselves with flashlights and went sneaking up to the only undecorated house. Dark and unadorned for the holiday, the Stark house looked even more deserted than usual. The only time it was even more obviously uninhabited was around Christmas, when it looked like a shadowy outcast next to the brightly lit homes along the street in front of it.

Natasha was the one who had scouted ahead, since she lived in one of the closest houses, and she now waved for the three boys to follow her down a nearly invisible path running along the outside of the wrought-iron fence. It was covered in dead vines that had climbed happily up it during the summer months, as well as still dusky green ivy. They waded through the thigh-high grass, hooked around the corner of the fence to the back of the yard, and let Natasha lead them through an old gate, tipped off its rusted and long ago broken hinges. Inside the gate the path was clearer, following the mostly grass-covered remains of a brick walkway across what had once been a lawn, leading to the porch running along the back of the house.

Once all of them were through the gate, ducking under the precariously leaning metal bars, they gathered in a huddle to stare up at the house waiting for them.

”Shit”, Bucky finally breathed, ”it looks even more depressing from this side.”

Steve had to nod, because he wasn't wrong. Part of the roof over the porch had collapsed, and the place where the Starks had once hosted famous summer parties was now mostly a sad wreck of broken wood and fallen tiles. At least the front of the house was intact, although worn and quickly turning outright dilapidated.

”Well, we didn't come here for the uplifting scenery.” Clint shrugged, wound his hand into Natasha's, and they fell into step side by side, moving closer to the house.

Steve started to follow, and felt Bucky catch up with just a couple of long-legged steps. Then his friend's arm settled around his shoulders, holding him close as they walked over the uneven bricks in the grass.

”Hey, Stevie? You remembered your inhaler, right?” Bucky kept his voice low, and sounded genuinely concerned. ”I didn't think about it before, but fuck, look at the place? Bet it's full of dust and mould and all sorts of shit.”

”Yeah, I remembered”, Steve assured him. He swallowed down the urge to remind Bucky he wasn't stupid. Sure, he had a reckless streak that was pretty wide at some points, but he wasn't looking to actually get himself killed.

Bucky didn't answer, just ruffled Steve's hair as he pulled his arm back off his shoulders, and gave him a shit-eating grin as Steve glared, trying to tidy his fly-away hair back down.

Clint and Natasha had already reached the house and pushed the rickety remains of a screen door open. When Steve and Bucky joined them, Natasha settled her hand on the heavily decorated brass door handle, pushed it down, and with a sorrowful, wailing creak, the door opened to show a mostly dark entrance hall. Some light fell in from the streetlight on the front side of the building, but most of it was blocked by shutters. They could faintly make out the shape of a staircase, and the larger pieces of furniture.

”Flashlights?” Natasha turned to look at Clint, her hands busy twisting her long, red hair into a bun.

Clint produced two out of his pockets with a flourish, offering her one. 

Steve had already reached for his own, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Bucky do the same.

The four circles of light they aimed at the interior of the Stark house showed them a fully furnished entrance hall, a thick rug on the floor running from the back door to the front door, the dead, dry stalks of what had might once have been roses in a crystal vase on a side table under a dusty mirror in a heavy frame, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers in the same style of heavy wood.

”Wow”, Clint said as he stepped first over the threshold, sweeping spiderwebs aside. ”I always pictured it to be all empty, you know? Why didn't they take their stuff with them when they moved out?”

”They didn't move out”, Steve piped up. Which made his friends all turn to stare at him, so he hurried to explain himself. ”I mean, they stopped living here, but they didn't _move out_. The Starks own several homes in different places. This is just one of them. They didn't sell it or anything, they just left to live somewhere else.”

”Good thing we remembered to bring the walking history book”, Clint said, smirking, the odd lighting bringing out the purple tones in his blue eyes. Then he bit off a grunt in the way that meant Natasha had elbowed him in the ribs.

”Who cares about some old, rich people”, she said, dismissing the whole thing. ”Let's move.”

Then she shoved forward to take point, leading them into the first doorway on the right, which led to a parlour. The light glittered off crystal and glass on a huge bar. By a cavernous fireplace was a low table, surrounded by a sofa and two arm chairs, all dark wood and cloth in a pattern that had once probably been richly red-and-gold. On the other side of the room, by the tall windows facing the street, was a grand piano flanked by the reedy remains of huge, palm-like, potted plants.

Natasha turned to walk up to the piano, while Bucky peeled off to inspect the wetbar, where amber liquids still sparkled in some of the bottles.

Steve stayed just inside the doorway to the room, moving the circle of his flashlights from one painting to the other along the walls. They were a mix of old landscape and hunting scenes, and some larger-than-life portraits. Maybe long-dead members of the Stark family.

”Steve?” Clint voice was soft enough that Steve didn't startle when it spoke up behind his shoulder.

”Yeah?” He didn't take his eyes off the portrait of a blonde woman in a dress from the 50s, wide skirt falling from a narrow waist, high collar by her throat, sitting by what had to be the piano standing by the windows. Steve could even recognize their street, showing behind her in the painting, where the windows weren't covered with shutters. She was very pretty, and her smile brilliant.

”Is it true that they left the house because their butler went crazy and tried to kill them?”

Suddenly feeling uncomfortable about staring at the portrait – since he was pretty sure that was a painting of Maria Stark and it felt wrong talking about her while staring at her younger self – Steve lowered his flashlight and shrugged under the weight of Clint's question.

”Dunno.” He'd heard the same rumour, but Peggy Carter, the old lady who lived next door to Steve and his mom, and who had been an acquaintance of the Starks when she was younger, had scoffed when Steve had curiously hinted at it.

”Let me tell you”, she'd said, the remnants of her British accent turning sharper, the way it usually did when she felt strongly about a subject. ”Edwin Jarvis would have rather gnawed his own hand off, than raised it against anyone in that family.” Peggy had slumped back in her armchair, like the little outburst had exhausted her, and softly murmured the rest. ”No matter how much some of them might have deserved it.”

When Steve tried to ask about what she meant by that, she had given him a tight smile and asked him to go home, because she needed her rest.

”I don't think so, though”, Steve said, glancing at Clint as his friend raised an eyebrow at the statement. ”He worked for the Stark family for decades.”

”So? Maybe that's what turned him crazy?”

”Maybe”, Steve said. Even though he didn't believe it, and Clint probably heard it in his tone. ”But the way I heard it, he went with them when they left.”

Clint made a sideways nod at that, not agreeing, but conceding that Steve might have a valid point.

By then Bucky and Natasha had explored enought, and were ready to move on to the next room. They waved Clint and Steve to the double doors across the parlour, before swinging them open and walking through. Steve hovered between the rooms for a moment, and right when he started moving to follow, there came a very faint little note from the grand piano. Like someone had touched a key briefly. Steve froze, shivered, the fine hairs at the back of his neck prickled, and he didn't dare glance over his shoulder. Instead he hurried to get moving, and half ran to catch up with Bucky as they made their way into what turned out to be the diningroom. Bucky eyed him curiously when Steve pressed close to his arm, but didn't say anything.

The room was completely dominated by a long table with a dozen high-backed chairs. In the center of a dusty tablecloth stood a huge, silver candelabra, covered in tarnish and wreathed in spiderwebs.

After pushing the next door open and looking inside, Bucky turned back with a shake of his head. ”Kitchen”, he said by way of explanation, and none of them felt like they needed to check that out more closely. Instead they made their way back through the parlour, thankfully still and quiet, although Steve stayed close by Bucky's side anyway, eyeing the piano as they passed.

In the entrance hall they found another door by the staircase, and behind that was a library, its shelf-covered walls reaching almost two stories high. It was full of the sharp smell of old books and leather bindings, and Steve was itching to find out more about what was hidden in this treasure trove. But the others were less insterested in the written word, and in the end he agreed to follow them around the house first. 

”Promise I'll stay and check it out with you, after”, Bucky offered, as they followed Clint and Natasha up the wide, sweeping staircase to the second floor, and Steve gave him a grateful smile.

There was a long hallway at the top of the stairs, with doors to many rooms. While they investigated what turned out to be another, smaller and more intimate parlour, and a row of what looked like guestrooms, Steve felt the hairs at the nape of his neck stand up again. The sense of being watched was growing increasingly stronger as they explored what they guessed had been the master bedroom, huge and richly decorated, the wide, four poster bed surrounded by heavy curtains.

The room closest to the master bedroom gave them all some pause, and the knot in Steve's gut tightened.

”This is a kid's room, isn't it?” Bucky took a step away from the door, and Steve had to restrain himself to keep from reaching out and snatching Bucky's arm up and drag him back. They shouldn't be here. ”I had no idea the Starks had a kid.”

”Me neither”, Natasha said, stepping up beside him and sweeping her flashlight along the left wall of the room. ”Definitely looks like it, though.”

There were what looked like schematics on the wall, and a big, colourful rendition of the periodic table of elements above a cluttered desk. On the opposite wall, above the bed, were movie posters, and Steve could recognize both Superman and Star Trek despite the shifting circles of light. Although the versions tacked to these walls were not the same as the ones he had at home. These were for the original movies, from the late 70s.

On the shelf in a corner, books shared space with model airplanes, an AT-AT walker from Star Wars, and something that looked like an attempt at a homemade version standing awkwardly propped up beside it.

A pair of jeans and a t-shirt too dusty to make out the print on the front of it, were both thrown over the arm of the desk chair. As if someone had undressed, gone to bed, and then never gotten around to dressing again. The size of the clothes weren't far off from what Steve himself wore, and since he was small for his age, he guessed they had belonged to someone maybe twelve or thirteen.

”I'm going to take a wild guess and say they had a son”, Clint said. ”Why have we never heard about that before?”

”No idea”, Bucky muttered, where he was leaning in to study the mess of books and papers and pencils under the thick layer of dust on the desk. ”Stevie?” He glanced at Steve, who was still hovering by the door. ”Did you know? You seem to have all the inside knowledge.”

Steve quickly shook his head, wrapping the arm not holding his flashlight around his middle. ”No, I never knew either. This is... weird. Guys? We should move on. I don't like this place.” The sense of eyes boring into his skin was getting stronger. ”Guys?”

All he got was preoccupied grunts from Clint and Bucky, and a finger raised in a _hold on a minute_ gesture from Natasha. 

With a sigh that made his lungs tickle and spasm in a cough from all the dust they had driven into the air, Steve reluctantly stepped into the room too, edging closer to the sliding doors of a walk-in closet. Rows of pants and shirts lined one wall of the space, shelves of shoes the other, and a sloppily half-closed drawer showed a stack of neatly folded briefs. Definitely a son, then.

The wall beside the shelves was bare and looked a little off, somehow. Something in the shade of the paint. Frowning, Steve stepped closer and curiously raised his hand to tap his knuckles against the surface. It echoed back a decidedly hollow sound.

Steve noticed a slightly worn spot close to the side of the shelf, pressed his fingertips to it, and smoothly, noiselessly, the off-looking section of the wall was sliding inward, and then to the side. Leaving a narrow space open in front of Steve's astonished eyes.

”Wow”, he whispered to himself. ”Secret door. That's so cool.” For a moment he even forgot about feeling like someone was staring at the back of his head.

He turned on the spot, about to call to the others, and came to a startled stop. Because the circle of his flashlight had fallen on a kid, sitting crouched on the floor by the opposite wall, right below the row of pants, folded over perfectly spaced hangers. Steve blinked, mouth already open to call out, but no sound escaped since his throat felt tied shut.

The boy was dressed in a black t-shirt, and his skinny arms and hands were wrapped around his jeans-clad knees, which were pressed to his chest. His face was too pale, lips a faint blueish colour that didn't look healthy. His hair was a brown, thick, unruly mess, and his huge eyes were dark brown, staring right into Steve's eyes in turn.

Before Steve could begin to grasp what was going on, the boy suddenly shot up from his curled-up spot on the floor, getting to his feet and rushing forward so fast that Steve let out a startled yelp, and stumbled backwards. He almost lost his balance, and the way his arms flailed to regain it meant that the light flicked away from the strange kid.

There was a sharp _snap!_ of a noise, and when Steve found his footing and raised the flashlight again, the sliding wall had closed itself up again. Shutting Steve inside the hidden space.

Breathing too fast, heart stuttering behind his ribs as he tried to swallow down coughs and failed, Steve stepped up to the wall. Only to almost fall on his ass again when there came a sharp knock on the wall from outisde.

”Steve?” Bucky's high, frightened voice was muted, but perfectly audible.

”Buck!” Steve slapped the wall with his palm. ”I'm in here!”

”Thank fuck!” Bucky sounded shaky with relief now.

”Let me out, would you?” Steve had to pause to cough and gasp a little. The dust and sudden scare were turning out to be a bad combination for his lungs. ”There's a spot right by the shelf. If you press it, this thing slides right open.”

”Okay buddy, hold on...” There was some faint shuffling and tapping.

”There”, he heard Natasha say, and could imagine her sharp finger pointing out the right spot. ”Press there.”

There was more tapping and shuffling and then thudding and grumbling. Steve's heartrate increased with a painful little jolt. It shouldn't be this hard.

”Shit”, he heard Bucky grate out. ”Okay. Steve? Don't panic in there, but it seems to have jammed or something. We can't open it from here.”

Steve sucked down a squeak of a breath. ”What about that is supposed to _not_ make me panic?!”

”Calm down, Steve”, Natasha ordered, cool and firm, and it actually made him try. ”What do you see from there?”

He gripped his flashlight a bit tighter, swallowed, and reluctantly turned around. Terrified that he would find that he wasn't alone in the narrow space. That the kid had somehow followed him inside. Whoever he was, he sure didn't seem to be outside with the others.

But all he saw was the space running along the length of the bedroom, ending in what looked like a wooden ladder. Angling the light up showed him a trap door leading to the next floor.

”There's a trap door in the ceiling”, he said, making his voice loud enough that they would definitely hear him.

”Okay, that's good”, Natasha answered, soothing. ”It has to lead to the attic. And there is no way this can be the only way up there.”

Which, yeah, made sense. Steve nodded to himself, took a slow breath through his nose, and squared his narrow shoulders. ”All right”, he said, trying to sound calmer than he was. ”You find another way up, and I'll go this way. See you later?”

”See you _soon_ ”, Natasha agreed and corrected all at once.

”Hang in there, Stevie”, Bucky added. ”We'll have you out in no time at all.”

”Don't find all the hidden treasure before we get there!”, Clint added, making Steve give a wobbly smile.

There was more thumping and shuffling from the other side of the wall, and then just quiet. They must have left the room, then.

Steve gripped the flashlight so tight his fingers hurt, and started moving closer to the ladder. The space was so narrow that even he had to angle his body slightly to fit through, and he had to curl himself together to climb up the ladder. Thankfully it was a short climb, and the trap door, once he reached it, wasn't very heavy.

The trap door fell open with a squeal of hinges, and a _thunk_ as it hit something wooden. Gathering what courage he had, Steve climbed through and dragged himself up onto the attic floor. He quickly raised his hand to scan the new space with light, and saw nothing but stacks of boxes and furniture draped in protective cloth.

”Okay, Rogers”, he muttered to himself as he got to his feet on shaky legs, and had to break off his little pep talk to cough again. ”You can do this.”

He slowly found his winding way among the clutter, listening intently, hoping to hear his friends finding a way up here. At least the amount of furniture gave him hope that there really was another entrance to the attic, because no way had they carried this stuff up through that hidden door.

Since he was listening so carefully, hoping for company, the faint rustling noise of shifting cloth behind him made him spin on his heel at once, searching with the flashlight for movement. He didn't find it at first, just a piece of furniture so tall and wide it had to be a wardrobe or something, hidden under thick cloth. Then there was another noise, above him, and he angled the light up.

The strange boy was on top of the wardrobe. His knees were right by the edge, his hands settled between them, slim fingers curled into the dusty cloth. He was leaning dangerously far out from his perch, to stare right down at Steve, head tilted slightly to the side.

Steve jerked back, slammed his shoulder blades into something else cloth-covered, and stirred up a cloud of dust in the process. This time he didn't take the light off the boy, however, and got a perfectly good view of the kid leaning so far over the edge he was kneeling on that he tipped over it. But instead of falling and landing on his head on the floorboards, the boy turned into something shadowy and indistinct, something barely even there, just a dark shape drifting down along the draped folds in the cloth. Until he reappeared on the floor, just a couple of steps away from Steve, who was now wheezing and panicking for real. No matter what Bucky had told him.

Even as he stared at the boy, who was slowly stepping closer, Steve's free hand was fumbling for the inhaler in the pocket of his thick hoodie. He pulled it free, showed it in his mouth, and sucked down the bitter-tasting medicine. It wasn't easy to keep it in his lungs, with the way his heart was pounding and the fear made his lungs struggle to pant and gasp, but somehow he managed.

Blinking and squinting, as he slowly let his breath out through his teeth, hand clenched tight around his inhaler so he wouldn't drop it, Steve saw that the boy had stopped in his tracks. His head was tipped to the side again, still watching Steve intently, but not speaking. Maybe he couldn't?

Steve shoved the inhaler back into his pocket, saw the boy's dark eyes track the movement, and then flit back to Steve's face.

”Are you sick?” Whatever Steve had expected from the boy's voice, it wasn't for it to sound so... normal. A perfectly solid, real, curious tone, words a little quick and sharp in the way Steve associated with people from the city.

”Uh”, he stuttered out, unprepared, not expecting to be spoken to, ”yeah? I guess? I have asthma.”

The boy nodded slowly. ”My heart doesn't work right”, he said, briefly touching his sternum. ”When I get sick, mom takes me to the hospital.”

Steve blinked rapidly. ”My mom did that, too, when I was younger. I'm doing better now.”

”My mom hasn't taken me there in a long time.” The boy's face dipped into a thoughtful frown while he talked. ”So, I guess I'm doing better, too?”

A sharp twist tugged at Steve's gut, because he didn't think that was the reason. He didn't think that was the reason _at all_. But how do you tell a kid that he's dead, if he hasn't figured it out on his own?

You don't. That's how. So Steve forced on a small, trembling smile. ”Yeah, probably”, he quickly agreed, trying to smooth over his hesitation.

He hadn't expected the boy's face to fall at that, before he seemed to struggle for a fake smile of his own. ”Can I tell you a secret?”

”Sure?” Steve could see the halo of his flashlight tremble a bit around the boy, because his hands were shaking.

”I sort of like going to the hospital”, the kid said in a low, slightly guilty tone, leaning forward to keep the words just between the two of them. ”I mean, I know I shouldn't, but it's the only time my mom really seems to care about me. And I get to get away from Howard for a few hours, too.”

The words and statements were simple, but the many, many, awful implications woven into them made Steve's heart lurch and clench painfully in his chest. And he had no idea what to say. 

So he changed the subject.

”You... you locked me in here, didn't you?”

The boy glanced away, fingers twisting into the front of his t-shirt while a socked foot scuffed nervously against the floorboards. Without making a mark in the dust. ”Maybe?”

”Why?”

Dark eyes came back to Steve's face. They were wide and wet-looking in the light, completely guileless. ”You seemed nice. But I didn't want to talk to you with the others around.”

”Oh...” Steve swallowed. ”Thanks? But they're nice, too, so you don't have to worry.”

The boy shook his head. ”It's better this way. Mom always tells me I don't play well with others. I'm not allowed to be around other kids. They wouldn't like me, anyway.”

Wow, that was messed up...

”Maybe you just need to practice?”, Steve suggested. ”Anyway.” He put the palm of his free hand to his chest. ”I'm Steve. Rogers. I live just down the street.”

A genuinely happy smile lit up the boy's face. ”I'm Tony”, he said, voice much brighter now. ”Stark. Or really, it's Anthony, but I like Tony better.”

”Tony sounds good to me”, Steve agreed, the smile coming easier to his own lips.

Somewhere far away, from the other end of the attic, there was the wood-on-wood clap of some kind of door being shoved open. Both Steve and Tony startled and turned to look in that direction, just as Bucky's voice called Steve's name. Relief made his muscles go watery, but when he turned to look at Tony again, the boy looked utterly crestfallen.

”Hey”, Steve heard himself saying, gently. ”I have to go now, but... maybe I could come back? To visit?” This boy had been all alone for thirty years or more, Steve guessed. He could probably use some company.

Tony's dark eyes blinked with surprise. His eyelashes were very long and dark, the lower ones sharp against his pale skin. ”Would... would you come alone?”

”Yeah, sure.”

In response, Tony's face split into a grin. ”All right then. I'd like that. You can sneak up to my room. That way mom and Howard will never know.”

”I can do that”, Steve promised.

”Steve?” Bucky's voice was closer this time, cutting through the dusty air.

In front of him, Tony abruptly turned back into a shadow and seemed to melt into the cracks along the floor, gone in an instant. Steve shuddered, closed his eyes to gather himself, and then turned away, facing the sound of his best friend's voice.

”Buck!” He started walking through the maze of boxes and furniture again. ”Over here!”

They didn't stay behind to explore the library, but Steve was fine with that. Just fine.

* * *

It was a common enough thing to happen that when Steve announced two days after Halloween that he was going next door to help Miss Carter with her yard, Sarah Rogers didn't react beyond asking him to tell their neighbour hi from her. But this time, Steve had plans that involved more than raking up what would probably be the last scattered leaves of this season; the trees were almost bare by now.

After the visit to the Stark house he had a lot of questions, and he thought that the only one who could be persuaded to answer them was Peggy. So when she as usual invited him inside for some tea after he was done working, Steve politely accepted. And when he was settled in her livingroom, cluttered with framed pictures and souvenirs from her many travels, cradling a cup of steaming Earl Gray, he as casually as he could brought up the Starks.

”I never knew they had a son”, he said, keeping his voice light by sheer will. ”Isn't that strange?”

Peggy froze, just as she was about to pick up her own tea, and gave Steve a long look, her hazel eyes very sharp despite the wrinkles around them. ”Not many people do know”, she finally said, and instead of picking up the cup, she reached out a finger to point at a chest of drawers behind Steve. ”Fetch me the photo album from that bottom drawer, would you, dear?”

In an instant, Steve had put his cup down and gone to get the heavy album, bound in red leather and decorated with gold. When he held it out, Peggy patted the cushion next to her own on the loveseat she preferred, and Steve obediently sat down. He opened the album, spreading it out so half was supported on his right thigh, half on Peggy's left. Her fingers, wrinkled and liver-spotted, but still deft and elegant, reached out to flip to a certain page, tapping the large picture taking up the whole of Steve's side of the spread.

In the picture was a much younger Peggy Carter with long, curled hair that was dark and thick instead of whispy white, wearing a floral-print dress, and sitting by what must be the grand piano in the Stark parlour. Her lips were painted red, and curved into a wide, happy smile at the camera. In her lap was a child, probably no older than two or so, his arms a little blurred by motion as he was no doubt slapping tiny palms to the keys of the piano, mouth open in a delighted laugh. 

The child had a thick mess of dark hair, and dark eyes, rimmed with long, black lashes. Even with the decade between this picture and the age Tony had appeared the other day, Steve was sure it was the same boy.

As if answering his thoughts, Peggy spoke up. ”That's Tony.” Her voice was soft and sad. ”Maria had him in 1970, when she and Howard had already been married for about twenty years. In hindsight, it was probably a mistake for her to bring a child into that house, but she thought it would make her happy.” She gestured for Steve to move the heavy album, so she could reach for her tea.

Steve quickly obliged, gave the picture another long, thoughtful look, and then closed the thing and pushed it aside to pick up his own tea, settling in to listen.

”It would have been better if she'd left Howard”, Peggy continued after a sip of tea. ”But things like that are always easier said than done, and it was certainly no easier back then.” She pursed her lips. ”She was a kind woman, at heart, but she was frail and, I think, very troubled. And she had nothing but Howard, you understand? Over the years she came to resent that fact, and him, by extension. I think she thought a child would be something that was just hers.”

Listening with rapt attention, Steve forgot all about the cup of cooling tea in his hands. ”Did it work?”

Miss Carter gave him a sad smile. ”After a fashion. See, Tony was born with a heart defect. He had surgery when he was still just an infant, and had to use strong medication his whole life. And Maria, well, she poured her all into caring for him when he was small and sickly. She grew to be probably far too protective of him, but it was hard to blame her, really.”

She sighed, and put her cup down so she could twist her fingers together in her blanket-covered lap.

”Howard, he was a very bitter man by the time Tony was born. He was disappointed with his life and everyone in it, and he turned to the bottle for comfort. And he... he wasn't good to them, Steven.” Peggy gave him a serious look, and all he could do was nod to show his understanding. ”Sometimes I think that most of what Maria did, she did to keep Tony away from Howard.”

Steve frowned, not following now. ”What did she do?”

There was a long moment of silence, when Peggy seemed to consider her words. ”I think the times Maria was happiest, really, was when Tony was so sick he had to be in the hospital. As awful as that sounds”, she added with a little shake of her head. ”When he grew up a bit and got stronger, she had no idea how to handle him. A happy and healthy child wasn't something she knew how to deal with, because he didn't need her. And by then, I think she'd come to rely on someone needing her, and on the care and support she and her boy got from the doctors and the nurses. All that care and support they never got from Howard.”

Slowly, the pieces of what she was saying, and of what Tony had said, started slotting together to form a truly heartbreaking picture. Steve swallowed heavily. ”She was _keeping him sick_?” He almost whispered the horrible words.

Peggy must have heard him anyway, because she looked like she was blinking away tears as she nodded. Then she reached out to place her faintly trembling hand on his forearm, since his hands were still holding that forgotten cup. ”You have to understand, Steven... Most of this, I didn't figure out myself until many years after the fact. Or I would have done a great many things _very_ differently. And I think she managed to hide it from Edwin, as well.” She squeezed his arm gently, and then pulled her hand back to her own lap. ”But I suspect that she tampered with Tony's medication, to make his condition worse. Not all the time, you see, but now and then. So she had to take him away from that house, and into the hospital. And making him weak enough that she could isolate from the world. Keep him to herself.”

Her eyes drifted to the window, looking out at the tidy, newly raked lawn, but probably not seeing that at all. ”She filled his head with the idea that he was special, and I think she meant well, but the way it came out wasn't that he was special in _a good way_ , but...” Peggy's voice trailed off, like she didn't know how to phrase it. 

But Steve thought he did know. ”That he wasn't someone kids would want to be around”, he said. ”That he didn't play well with others.”

Miss Carter turned and gave him a long, sharp look. ”Yes. Exactly.”

He quickly dropped his eyes to the now cold tea in his hands, and leaned forward to put it on the table. When he sat back in the loveseat, he still kept his head down. ”What happened to him? To Tony?”

Steve heard Peggy sigh heavily. ”Not long before he was going to turn thirteen, his poor heart just couldn't take any more abuse. He passed away in his sleep. They left right after the funeral, to go back to Manhattan, and I haven't heard a word from them since.”

For a few long, heavy moments when Steve felt like he barely dared break the silence to breathe, they sat still, not looking at each other.

”Well, thank you for raking the lawn for me, Steven, dear”, Peggy said then, with forced, off-key levity. ”But I think I need my rest now.”

Steve nodded, thanked her for the tea he had barely touched, and left after carrying their cups back to the kitchen.

That night, in his own bed, staring up into the darkness gathered under the ceiling, Steve decided that he should keep his promise and go back to the house, to visit Tony. By the sound of things, he could use a friend.

* * *

Steve went to the Stark house during the short daylight hours the next time he visited. He made excuses when Bucky wanted to hang out and play video games, claiming he was behind on a project for school which he had actually finished a week ago. Then he went sneaking out the back door, taking the way through hedges and meadows of tall grasses and wilted wildflowers, to get to the old gate behind the abandoned house.

It all looked very different in the pale sunlight. More sadly dilapidated than creepy.

By the time he had made his way into the house and up the creaking staircase, back to the door that led into Tony's room, Steve had almost managed to convince himself that he had imagined the whole damn thing. That he'd been so scared after getting lost all on his own in this house, in the dark, that he'd seen and heard things that weren't really there.

The room looked the same once Steve had finally summoned up enough courage to push the door open. He could make out the tracks his friends' feet had made in the dust on the floorboards, but they hadn't actually touched anything in the room, as far as he could tell. The desk looked as cluttered as before, and the clothes were still hanging over the arm of the chair. Although now, Steve could recognize them as the clothes Tony had been wearing when Steve had seen him. The last clothes he'd been wearing in life. Shivering at the thought, Steve turned to look around the room, again wondering if Tony had been a figment of his imagination after all.

Peggy's story fit into it a little bit too well, though.

Lost in thought as he was, it took him a moment to realize that he could see Tony's curious, dark-eyed face peering up at him from the shadowy space under the bed. His hands were spead out flat on the floorboards under his chin, but when he saw Steve looking, he quickly put a finger across his pursed lips. When Steve, just slightly startled this time, nodded his understanding and stayed silent, Tony crooked his finger repeatedly, signing for Steve to join him.

After a moment's hesitation, Steve stepped closer, dropped to his knees, and then carefully stretched himself out on his front on the floor, within arm's reach of Tony's hidingplace.

”Did anyone see you come in?” Tony was whispering, eyes carefully flitting to the door, as if someone might come barging in screaming at any moment.

Steve shook his head. ”Nah. No-one was around at all.” Which was nothing but the truth, after all.

That made Tony's face split into a grin. ”Good. They haven't been around much lately, but it would have been just typical if they were home when you came to visit.” He pushed up on his elbows and started crawling out, and Steve scrambled out of the way, not entirely sure what would happen if Tony came into physical contact with him.

He got the answer to that as soon as they were both on their feet. Tony reached his hand out, too fast for Steve to dodge – and doing so would probably have looked super weird anyway – and caught Steve's fingers with his own. The touch was chilly, and not at all as solid as flesh and bone would have been. Something more yielding, gossamer thin. But it was there, clinging to his hand, tugging at it gently.

”Come, I want to show you my stuff”, Tony said excitedly, leading Steve over to the bookshelf, where he continued to point to every single one of his books, explaining what they were about. 

They all seemed to be some kind of science literature, math or physics, or how-to mechanics for cars and bikes. Considering the look of Tony's room, Steve would have expected some of that. But shouldn't there be something else too? Something with some more softness to it? Tony had just been a kid, after all.

Tony wasn't bothered. He just kept going, explaining the make and model of the miniature aiplanes on the next shelf. 

But he didn't get really going until he got to the AT-AT, and what turned out to be his own attempt at building a walking robot in its likeness. Tony smiled wide and proud as he reached up to pat the awkward, long-legged scrap metal 'bot on its tilting head.

”I used to have this whole shelf full of Star Wars figures”, he said, still smiling, as he turned to look at Steve. ”But then Howard came in here one day and saw the Princess Leia one, and he got _so mad_.” Tony's voice lowered at the last part, and again he glanced at the door. ”He screamed at both me and mom for an hour about how I shouldn't play with girl's toys and dolls, and then threw them all out. Only let me keep this because I was building my own.”

It was clear that Tony tried to keep the proud look on his face during that little story, show how happy he was about proving himself a man by building his own robot, even though his big, brown eyes were too wet and wide at a memory that had probably scared the crap out of him at the time.

Steve forced on a smile of his own, trying to ignore how sad and pissed off he was himself. How much he wished he could punch Howard Stark right in the face. ”I have a bunch of Star Wars stuff at home, too”, he confided. ”I could bring some, next time I come to visit.”

Tony's face lit up like the sun. ”Really?”

”Sure, Tony.”

”That's great! Oh, you should look at the schematics for Atta Boy.” That was the name for his own 'bot. ”Come on!” Again his barely-there fingers curled around Steve's, dragging him to the desk this time, pointing and explaining his way through a blueprint Steve barely understood anything of.

Granted, Steve was more into art and languages than hard science, but even to him it was clear that Tony was really, really smart. Brilliant, really.

When it was getting dark outside, and Steve's stomach was starting to grumble at him, he decided it was time to go home for today.

That did not go over well with Tony, however.

The boy's blue-tinted bottom lip jutted out in a displeased pout, skinny arms crossing tightly over his chest. ”But I've still got stuff left to show you. You should stay.”

”I'm getting pretty hungry”, Steve said, carefully.

That just earned him a confused little furrow of Tony's eyebrows, like he couldn't quite make sense of the statement. ” _I'm_ not”, he objected sullenly, like that was that and nothing else really mattered. 

”Well, if I don't go, I can't come back with the Star Wars figures.”

Biting his lip, Tony dragged his shoulders closer to his ears, almost glaring at Steve from under his lowered brows. Then he gave an exaggerated, gusty sigh. ”Fiiine. Come back after you eat, then. With the figures. And then we can play some more.”

”That sounds great, Tony.” Steve smiled, not bothering to point out that he would come back tomorrow, and not directly after eating, like Tony seemed to want. ”See you later.”

”Hurry back!”

The last thing Steve saw of Tony, was the boy shadow-shifting back into the now much denser darkness under the bed, and at least he hurried out after seeing that. He was less sure it was smart to actually come back.

When it came down to it, though, he'd promised Tony he would come back, and he found that he couldn't really let the kid down. 

Seeing the wide, delighted smile on Tony's face made Steve feel like he'd made the completely right decision, too. Even though it was a Sunday afternoon and he would usually have spent it with Bucky, Natasha and Clint, he found hours slipping by unnoticed as he and Tony sat with their heads close together over little plastic people, talking the day away.

In the end, the falling dark made Steve realize he had to get home, or his mom would start wondering. Dinner-time wasn't that far off, either. So he sighed and started to pack up his things, getting ready to say goodbye and leave.

A sudden and very frosty silence made his movements slow and then stop.

”What are you doing?” Tony's voice was awfully flat.

”I need to get home in time for dinner”, Steve explained, flowing back into motion to shove the tiny replica of Luke into the bag he'd brought the figures in.

”I don't want you to leave yet”, Tony objected, and reached a hand out to paw at the cloth of the bag. He didn't seem to be able to get a grip on it. Not like he could tangle his fingers up with Steve's, or interact with the things belonging in the house. ”And you can't take those! They're mine.”

”Uh...” Steve blinked at this statement. ”No? They're mine.”

”You brought them for me.” The argument was uttered with all the false and utterly firm logic of a stubborn child. ”So you can't take them back. That's not fair.” Tony's dark eyes were getting stormy under low brows.

”I brought them so you could see them.” Steve glared right back. He wanted to be nice to Tony, he really did, but he wasn't about to let himself be bullied. ”I can bring them back again if you want to. But they're still mine.”

Somehow they were both standing now, facing off in the middle of the room. Steve had his packed bag tightly clutched in his hand, Tony reaching out like he wanted to grab it from him, but his fingertips still slipped uselessly off the coarse cloth. There was an entirely new chill in the air, Steve noticed. Something sharp and dry and biting, compared to the dull, damp cold of the fall afternoon outside, and when Tony stepped closer, it intensified. Behind the boy, the shadows seemed to be gathering, turning that half of the room dark and gloomy. Steve took a step back, eyes darting around the room.

”No”, Tony said, louder now. ”I want them, and they're _mine_!” And actually _stomped his foot_ for emphasis, like a pissy toddler.

All at once, the chill was close enough to nip at Steve's cheeks, the darkness thickening like an awful bloodclot in the air, and when the sole of Tony's foot hit the floorboards, a cloud of dust billowed up, right in Steve's face.

Startled, Steve unthinkingly gasped in a sharp breath, coughed, and felt his lungs want to sieze up on him. Uselessly trying to wave the flying dust away from his face with his free, he coughed harder, and started backing away. That got him out of the worst of it, but the damage was already done. Wheezing, he tugged his inhaler out of his pocket and sucked down a dose of medicine, while he was still backing away from Tony, the dust and the darkness.

”Steve?” Tony's voice was suddenly very small and uncertain, and when Steve looked up from putting his inhaler away again, the boy was much closer. But he was looking very different. The darkness clotting around him was gone, the air was as autumn-cool as it had been before, and Tony's hands were nervously clutched in front of his chest. ”Are you all right?”

Still holding his breath around the medicine, Steve just shook his head.

”Here... come here.” Tony's hands came up to carefully close around Steve's left arm, the one not holding the bag, and tugged gently downward. ”Sit down for a bit.” And he went down to his knees beside Steve when he relented, exhaled, and let himself be dragged down along the door he didn't realize had been right behind his back. ”That's it, just... breathe, okay? Slowly.”

With a curt nod, Steve let the trapped breath slowly slip out between his teeth, and tilted his head back against the door with a thump, eyes falling shut. He felt Tony's palms rub his upper arm, before one shifted to his sunken, aching chest.

”See? That's better. Just rest, and it'll be better. You'll be all better.” Tony kept murmuring soothing half-nonsense while patting Steve's arm, his hand finally sliding down to settle for holding Steve's. That cool, gossamer touch stroking over the backs of his fingers.

And it really did calm him down. It was a bit like listening to his mom or Bucky, the ones who were usually there to talk him through an attack when he was younger, and they were a lot more common. A short sprint to the schoolbus had been enough to reduce him to panicked wheezing then, and Bucky had helped him find his inhaler while simultaneously threatening to beat up anyone on the bus who felt like laughing.

Finally he opened his eyes, rolled his head around to the side, and found Tony hunched up by his side, still kneeling on the floor. When he saw Steve looking at him, he gave a tiny, blue-lipped smile.

”You can keep the figures with you”, Tony said, like it was a generous offer of something that was actually his to offer in the first place. ”Maybe they help you stay healthy?”

Steve definitely didn't think so, but he knew an olive branch when he saw it. So he smiled weakly back. ”Yeah, maybe.”

”I bet”, Tony said, nodding sagely. ”I was feeling really bad, and then mom let me go see Return of the Jedi. In a theater and everything!” His face lit up at the memory. ”I was really tired afterward, but mom hasn't showed up to take me to the hospital since, so I think it actually helped.” Then he frowned a little. ”I haven't seen mom at all. But that means I can see you, and Howard will never know.” Tony smiled wider.

Even with his previous tantrum fresh in Steve's mind, there was something so soft and sweet and caring about Tony, trying to make him feel better after Steve getting a lungful of dust, than he decided to try and compromize, meet him halfway.

”Hey, Tony?”

”Hm?”

”Which one is your favourite?”

Tony's nose scrunched up in confusion. ”Favourite what?”

”Of the figures.” Steve tapped his fingers to the bag to show what he meant.

”Oh.” Tony blinked, gears almost visibly turning under his messy hair. ”R2D2?”

Without saying anything in explanation, Steve shoved his hand in the bag and felt around for the distinctive, rounded shape of the white and blue 'droid. He pulled it out and held it up in his palm for Tony to stare at. ”How about I take the others with me, to help me feel better, and I leave this guy here, with you? That okay?”

Tony's huge smile told him it was very okay. So when Steve was confident that his breathing was under control again, he let Tony guide him back into the room, to place the little 'droid under Tony's bed. Hidden where his father wouldn't see it, if he happened to come visit. Of course, Steve knew that wasn't happening, but he didn't think there was any use trying to explain that to Tony, so he just did as told. And this time Tony just pouted and looked disappointed, but allowed Steve to leave.

When he got back home, Steve stared at his laptop for a while before he started it up, and brought up Google. Which readily told him that Return of the Jedi had been released in May 1983. 

If Tony had been born in 1970, and died shortly before turning 13, and he didn't remember going to the hospital again after that... Steve swallowed, and closed down the Wikipedia page he'd clicked into. Chances were that Tony had come home from watching the movie, gone to bed, and never woken up.

Tony wasn't wrong – he'd never had to go to the hospital again.

* * *

As a rule, Steve always tried to see the good in others. 

He wasn't naive – even at fifteen he knew enough about the world to know it wasn't always a nice place, and that people were capable of awful things – but he liked to believe that they were also capable of amazing things, if you just gave them the chance. For the most part, people hadn't let him down.

However, this might have been the reason why it took him as long as it did to realize something about Tony that he should have seen much, much sooner.

Steve had spent almost a month visting Tony when he finally saw the truth. He hadn't been there very regularly, but checking in every now and then to keep Tony happy. It wasn't too hard, really. Tony didn't have a sense of time passing, as far as Steve could tell, and he never knew the difference if Steve had been gone a day or a week. He was pleased with every chance to see Steve, and showed him around the whole house as the month passed, always scared to be found out by his parents and punished for having a friend visiting.

Since the incident with the Star Wars figures, Tony hadn't had another tantrum. He was mostly eager and talkative, curious and capricious. The more they talked on different subjects, Steve saw that he'd been right about Tony beeing almost terrifyingly smart for a kid. He was awfully bright, and grasped concepts with a speed that was slightly stunning.

But after the outburst, Steve was also becoming very aware that Tony in some ways acted much younger than his apparent age. He lived in a child's bubble of self-obsession, unaware of other peoples' needs or wants. He was clearly materially spoiled, while it was also sadly, heartbreakingingly clear that people had been far from generous when it came to social and emotional interactions with him.

Tony wasn't intentionally mean, but empathy was clearly a foreign language to him, one he only had a vague grasp of. Considering what Steve had put together about Tony's pitifully short life, it was difficult to blame him for his horribly stunted emotional growth, but it still wasn't always easy to ignore when Tony occasionally turned nasty in the casual, careless way of someone with no concept of other people feeling hurt, too.

On the other hand, Tony did understand when Steve was in physical distress or pain, and he was always as sweet and gentle as he had been that first time. Sitting next to Steve if he had to breathe through a coughing fit, or rest after having to use his inhaler. One of those things happening every other time Steve visited.

So he almost felt stupid when it took him this whole month to figure out that every single time that had happened, every time he had been coughing or wheezing, it had been _because of Tony_. He'd brushed it aside as accidents at first. Things Tony just did thoughtlessly, or things that simply happened by chance, even. Because Tony's hand in them wasn't always entirely obvious.

It wasn't until they went to explore the library, which Steve had been curious about since that very first visit to the Stark house with his friends, that the pattern became clear.

Steve was looking at a stack of books on a table, just humming distractedly in answer to Tony talking to him, barely hearing what the boy said. The next thing he knew, a large, heavy book lying open next to him was suddenly slammed shut, gusting up paper-smelling dust and torn spiderwebs, right in his face.

Steve threw his arm across his mouth and nose, sneezing violently into the crook of his elbow, backing away, bending over into the following coughing fit. It passed pretty fast, probably because he had breathed in through his nose and his body had protected itself by sneezing the worst of it right back out. And when he straightened up, wiping tears off his cheeks, Tony was standing right there, looking worried, fingers clutching at Steve's sleeve.

”Maybe you should sit down for a bit?” Tony moved to the side, inching closer to a couple of leather wing chairs by the old fire place, built far from any shelf. He sounded perfectly concerned and as sweet as ever. ”You don't look like you're feeling well.”

Suddenly, the sweetness was too much, tasting cloying and half-rotten on the back of Steve's tongue. He pulled his arm free, staring at Tony in a disbelief he knew he shouldn't really be feeling.

”I'm not feeling well because you did that”, he pointed at the table. ”With the book. You did that on purpose, so I'd get the dust right in my face! Why would you do that?”

Tony's face twisted into a deep, wildly confused frown. Like it was a horribly complicated question to comprehend, for a kid who had a pretty solid grasp on the theory of relativity. ”So you would feel better”, he said slowly, like it was _Steve_ who was slow on the uptake.

Steve blinked. ”You've been doing this the whole time”, he said, realizing it fully as he put it into words. Then he scowled, angrily shaking his head. ”But that's not making me feel better, Tony. It's making me feel sick!”

”At first”, Tony agreed, soothing, once more reaching for Steve's sleeve. ”You feel sick _first_ , but then you feel better, right? That's how it works.”

With a step back, Steve moved out of his grasp. Something horrible was becoming clear to him. ”I don't want you to do that, Tony. That's... that's really mean.”

That made Tony freeze, staring at Steve with wide, shining, wet eyes, mouth open in shock. ”What? No! It's not mean!” He gave a sharp shake of his head, vehemently denying the accusation. ”That's how you help people! If they don't feel sick, you can't take care of them, and make them feel better. And I really care about you, Steve. So much. And I want you to feel better.” The distressed knot between his eyebrows and the twist to his lips couldn't be anything but earnest, but that just made it worse. ”This is what my mom does to make me feel better, so I know it's the right way.” He gave Steve a tense smile. ”She's always right.”

And that was when Steve snapped.

It was all too awful to deal with. Steve was scared, and angry, and knowing that this was what Tony's experience had actually made him believe, was just the last straw. He couldn't take this anymore. He really, really couldn't.

”Yeah?” His voice was harsh even to his own ears. ”Well that makes sense then, because she was definitely right when she said you don't play well with others.”

The fragile smile on Tony's face was instantly wiped away, and it looked like Steve had just punched him in the gut. His blue lips parted, but nothing came out.

”I'm done”, Steve ground out, throwing his hands up in angry defeat. ”I tried, but I can't with you anymore. This is it. I'm going home, and I'm not coming back.”

He managed to take one step toward the door, before Tony lashed out. The movement of pale, thin arms whipping out, fingers clawing into the front of his jacket, made Steve jerk to a halt and spin half back around. His own arms came up in defense before he even got a good look at Tony. And when he did get it, he wished he hadn't.

The boy still looked stricken, shock and something like terror twisting his features up, as if he was about to break down sobbing. But there was also a dark, dangerous rage hardening his eyes. Behind him, shadows were gathering into deep darkness.

Steve felt cold biting into his skin. His breath turned white in front of his face.

”You can't leave”, Tony said, voice boyishly high, and cuttingly sharp at the same time. ”You can't. Everyone leaves, and I'm all alone.” For a moment of terrible clarity, the fear on his face stood out starkly, eclipsing the anger. Then it passed, the darkness deepened, and Tony glared. ”You're not leaving. You're my friend, Steve, and I want you to stay. So you can't leave.”

The air around them seemed as agitated as the shadows looming in a black pillar around and behind Tony now. The cold was almost frosty, and quick, flitting little gusts of wind were tugging at Steve's clothes and hair, making the chill seep into his bones and whisping up more dust. He could see it billowing up in almost lazy coils, out of the corner of his eyes.

”You need to stay!” Tony's eyes were black now, his blue lips open to show a mouth that was black too, a gaping maw of greedy terror. ”I'm not letting you leave and you have to _STAY_!”

As Tony's pleading, demanding rant pitched into a scream, the gusts turned to a whirlwind of dust and mouldy air and decayed paper and ashes from the old fireplace and dust and dust and darkness, Steve screamed back. Wordless and panicked, like a frantic animal, and he kicked and shoved at someone who wasn't even entirely there, trying to get away. His boots and fists passed mostly through Tony, and getting away from his clinging, weak fingers wasn't hard.

But there was ashes and dust everywhere, in his nose and mouth and his lungs and he was even beyond coughing now. Steve wheezed in a breath that got stuck in his chest as his lungs wanted to force it out as a cough, failed, wanted him to gasp in more air, failed that too, and his entire respiratory system locked down, siezed up.

Steve already had a hand on his inhaler when he backed away from Tony another step, the movement instinctive by now, even when he was more terrified than he had ever been in his life. He saw Tony follow, wreathed in angry shadows. He shoved the inhaler into his mouth and tried to breathe the medicine in but couldn't. Air was locked out of his throat.

The clatter of his inhaler hitting the floor, dropped from his numb fingers, barely registered with Steve. He was stumbling backwards, hands going to his own throat, his chest, as if he could manually restart the system somehow. Hit a fail-safe. 

There wasn't one.

He felt a brief, dull pain as he fell to his knees. The impact made his breathing stutter to a half-start, but that just sucked more polluted air into his lungs, and they instantly locked back down.

Suddenly, Tony was in front of his face. His halo of darkness gone, the cold a distant memory, and his face softened with concern.

”Steve?” He sounded pleading. ”You need to breathe now. Come on. Nice and slow. That'll make it all better, you'll see. Just breathe.”

Then Steve could only see the ceiling, suddenly, and knew he'd fallen over on his back. A moment later Tony's face was back, hovering over him, eyes even wider.

”Please, Steve, breathe! You'll feel better, I promise, just take a slow breath.”

He wanted to do what Tony asked him to, he really did.

But the world was rapidly getting covered by black and dust-gray spots and dissolving. 

His lungs gave a painful spasm and lost their frantic struggle for air and then there was just

* * *

...........nothing...........

* * *

Steve stood in the doorway to Tony's room, not sure how he got there, but immediately distracted from that thought by the wide, happy smile on Tony's face. The boy came walking up to Steve with quick, bouncing steps, and didn't stop until he was right up in Steve's personal space, actually wrapping his arms around Steve's shoulders and neck, tugging him into a hug. He'd never done that before, but it was... really nice. The hug felt solid and _warm_ and that was somehow wrong, but Steve couldn't think of a reason why.

”There you are”, Tony murmured by his ear, holding him tight. ”You were gone and I missed you but you're here”, he continued, in a relieved little rush.

Frowning a little to himself, confused, Steve nonetheless curled his own arms around Tony's back, to return the hug. The boy smelled like dry dust, and even if Steve couldn't remember that he'd ever smelled like anything at all before, it felt familiar and somehow comforting. ”'Course I'm here.” He had no idea where else he would have been.

Tony pulled back to look at him, still smiling. ”So there's something we haven't done yet.”

”What's that?”

”A surprise.” Tony's smile grew wider, and then faded a little. ”Unless... you saw my mom or Howard down in the parlour? Because then we'll do it another day.”

Not that Steve could remember passing by the parlour on the way up here, but for some nebulous reason he was certain Tony's parents weren't there, anyway. So he shook his head. ”It's just us in the house.”

”Oh!” That made Tony light up again. ”Perfect. Come on!”

He slipped his warm, solid hand into Steve's and _tugged_ and then... something strange happened. Steve felt like he just blinked and then everything was a twisting, turning, slipping slide of shadows, and the next thing he knew, they were both standing right by the grand piano in the parlour. It was as dusty as ever, worn and dilapidated, and seemed even more abandoned, somehow, in contrast to the solidity of Tony right beside him, his warm hand in Steve's, guiding him over to the seat by the piano.

”I want to teach you how to play”, Tony revealed, as they sat down side by side, pressed close together so they both could fit.

Steve nodded agreement, smiling. He'd never played the piano, but he'd always wanted to know how, nd the grand piano in the Stark house was a gorgeous instrument.

But before he could get into the lesson, his attention was drawn to the windows beside his seat. They were shuttered, hiding the street he knew he would have otherwise been able see run away between the double line of trees and houses, but through the gaps in the shutters he could still see the rolling, flashing, red-and-blue lights of what had to be an ambulance, or maybe a police car. Or both.

He frowned at the moving lights, knew they meant something important. That someone was hurt. That something bad had happened. Probably something _really_ bad, because there was no frantic wail of sirens outside, just that even, rotating flash of light, signalling the resigned aftermath of disaster.

”Steve?” Tony's voice called his attention away from the windows, and he forgot about the lights, what they meant, and why – maybe? – it was important to him.

”Yeah?” He turned back to look at Tony.

The boy's fingers were spread and ready over the keys, but he was biting his bottom lip, looking uncertain for some reason. ”You're not going to leave, right?”

”Nah.” Steve smiled. He didn't know what made Tony look so worried about it. ”Not now. You're teaching me how to play the piano.”

Tony smiled so widely and sweetly in return, that Steve thought this would really be worth getting home late for.

Of course he would have to go back home in a while, or his mom would worry, but he could stay a bit longer, he decided, as he watched Tony's fingers gently sweep over the white and black keys, drawing whisper-soft notes from the instrument. There was still time. 

Nothing but time.

**Author's Note:**

> This story now comes with a lovely little epilogue, thanks to an amazing friend. [Read it on tumblr!](http://saltydorkling.tumblr.com/post/152474633451/this-is-a-little-something-for-usedupshiver)


End file.
